My daughters were born happy and healthy, but what I had hoped for—namely, an improved mood and purpose in life—was not fulfilled. In fact, quite the opposite occurred. With each pregnancy I became a little more despondent. Postpartum depressions exacerbated my bipolar disorder, and by the end of my third pregnancy I was almost nonfunctional. Whereas in the past my mental illness had been denied by my family, now it was so apparent that it could not be ignored. During my fourth pregnancy, I went into treatment for the first time. At that point, I felt empty inside, and because of that emptiness, I felt like a bad wife and mother.